


and when our children tell our story

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [24]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex and John are obvious, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Canon Era, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Frances is awkward, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, background Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Son, i love this verse, implied asexual Frances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9270386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Frances was six when she met her father.He had simply showed up on their doorstep one day with nothing but the clothes on his back. He was different than Frances had expected, although Frances could not say what her expectations had been. Mr Laurens' eyes were tired and set in, like what he had seen and experienced during the war had taken a heavy toll on his health.In which Laurens rushes into things without thinking them through (nothing new there); Hamilton is as bi as the Fourth of July; Laurens likes to stare at people because he is creepy like that; Frances is Faintly Disapproving Of Her Father's Infidelity; and Eliza is an actual queen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since I cannot figure out how to tweak Frances' age, I'm just going with the idea that she is very mature for her age.

Frances Laurens was four when her mother died.

She was a little too young to understand the full significance of the event, but she grasped the concept that her mother would not be able to accompany her anywhere in the foreseeable future.

Lacking a father, she went to her great-aunt and uncle. They were soon contacted by her aunt, Martha Laurens Ramsay, who said that she would be happy to become a guardian to the young Frances. Frances herself was a little confused by all the moving around, but obliged.

Her aunt had travelled to England in order to retrieve her; together, they made the trip back to the newly liberated America (although she did not know it at the time) to start a new life. Truth be told, Frances did not remember much of Britain, and what she _did_ remember was vague and blurry.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

Frances was five when her aunt got a letter informing them of the death of Frances' father, John Laurens. According to his grandfather, Frances' father had perished in battle in South Carolina, fighting for the freedom of the nation she was currently a resident of.

Seeing as Frances had never even laid eyes on the man, all she could feel was a distant sorrow that a person felt about the death of a fellow human being. He was no one special – he had never been a part of Frances' life.

“Your father was a good man,” her aunt reassured her, but frankly, Frances could not bring herself to care.

She said as much. Her aunt laughed. “You truly are your father's daughter, aren't you?”

Frances shrugged. “I would not know.”

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

Frances was six when she met her father.

He had simply showed up on their doorstep one day with nothing but the clothes on his back. He was different than Frances had expected, although Frances could not say what her expectations had been. She had tried not to focus on the subject, since the chances that she would be meeting her father were, even before his demise in '82, infinitesimal.

Mr Laurens' eyes were tired and set in, like what he had seen and experienced during the war had taken a heavy toll on his health. He had pronouncedly dark circles around his eyes, and his hair, although Mr Laurens had clearly taken great care to tame it, was disheveled.

Frances' aunt stared at Mr Laurens, looking like she did not believe her eyes, then stepped forward as if to embrace him. At the last second, she seemed to change her decision. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed, and Laurens held his hand to his cheek. He winced. “I admit that I deserved that,” he admitted.

“Damn right you did,” auntie retorted harshly. Her face then softened. “Talk to me, Jack, what happened to you? We heard that you were _dead_.”

Mr Laurens avoided his sister's penetrating gaze. “I was indeed hurt, and was recuperating for the past several months. The physicians were not certain whether I would make it. I am eternally sorry for being the cause of your pain.”

Auntie sighed. “Fine, John. Please, come in,” she offered, standing aside to let Mr Laurens step in.

Once seated in the living room, Frances' aunt looked at Laurens. “Alright, now spill: what do you want?”

Laurens shifted uneasily. “I had planned to take change of Frances' upbringing, if you will let me,” he gestured at Frances, who was seated next to her aunt on a couch. Auntie grimaced; she did not respond for a while. Laurens saw this and leaned forward. “Martha?”

Auntie started. She sighed. “I must admit that my feelings on this matter are not unequivocal,” she began. “On one hand, she _is_ your daughter, an you should have the right to raise her. But brother,” here, she paused, “do you even have the means of supporting her?”

Laurens nodded vigorously. “I promise you that I do.”

Auntie snorted. “The last time you made a promise with the words 'I do', you then promptly ran off to fight an impossible war, and had an affair with one of your best friends and his wife.”

Laurens stilled. “How do you know about Alexander?” he finally croaked.

Auntie shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring Laurens' narrowed eyes. “I have my sources,” she hesitated, then continued. “The way I see it, it is ultimately Frances' decision. After all, it is _her_ life, not ours.”

Laurens nodded; they both turned to face Frances. “Frances,” Laurens began, “would you like to live with me?” he asked hopefully.

Frances shrugged in a way eerily reminiscent of her aunt. “I do not mind, aunt, Mr Laurens,” she said, deliberately addressing her aunt first. Although she liked her aunt very much, she was at least willing to give Mr Laurens a chance. And, if all else failed, she could always return here. Aunt Martha has always made that perfectly clear.

Auntie and Laurens exchanged glances. Auntie then spoke, “Okay,” she exhaled. “Okay then. It is decided. Oh, and John?”

“Yes?” Laurens glanced at his sister.

Auntie smiled in a way that unsettled both Laurens and Frances. “If you hurt so much as a hair on her head, I will find you, and I will make you _pay_.”

Laurens swallowed audibly. “Understood, sister.”

Auntie's smile grew warmer. “Now that that's settled, let us get down to business.”

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

By next morning, Frances and Laurens were set to travel to wherever Mr Laurens had planned to take them. Laurens ordered a carriage for the two of them. Frances spent most of her time ignoring her father in favour of reading her most recent book. Laurens, meanwhile, spent most of his time watching Frances like a treasure that he still was not quite sure was there.

“Do you have any questions, Frances?” Laurens finally asked.

Frances silently put down her book. Instead of a question, she settled on a statement. An accusation, really. "You left me and my mother," her voice was hard, harder than any six-year-old had any right to be.

"I did," Laurens confirmed neutrally.

"You loved her, and then you left her," Frances reiterated, driving home her point.

Laurens winced. "I didn't actually love her," he corrected Frances gently.

Francis glared. "What happened, then?” she snapped. “You impregnated her and left her with a baby? Was it all just a little game for you? You did not have to take responsibility for anything, after all. You simply married my mother as though it would make up for your absence."

Laurens did not look at Francis. "Yes, I did, to my eternal shame, all of what you just accused me of. Your mother..." he trailed off, then sighed. "It was a spur of the moment thing for me," he finally confessed. "I attempted to convince myself that it was something I enjoyed, and your mother just happened to be the first lady who would take me up on the offer."

Frances raised an eyebrow. "Wanted to prove _what_ exactly?" she taunted.

Laurens steeled himself. This next part could very well get him hung, if Frances ever saw fit to divulge the information to anyone. "That I hold a physical interest in women."

Frances was silent for a moment. She studied him with eyes just as blue as Laurens' own. "Mr Laurens," Frances hesitated, "are you a sodomite?" she asked carefully.

Laurens tilted his head. “You know, you are far more intelligent than I expected of a six-year-old,” he said conversationally, smiling a little.

Frances narrowed her eyes. “You did not answer my question, Mr Laurens.”

The smile on Laurens' face slipped off, replaced by an expression Frances could not determine. “No, I do not suppose I did,” he snorted. "Am I attracted to my gender in favour of the opposite? Yes, yes, I am. Do I like being fucked in the ass?” he contemplated that for a moment. “I suppose that depends on the person, really,” he grinned.

Frances winced. “I did not need to know that, Mr Laurens.”

Laurens shrugged. “You did ask, daughter,” at that, Frances gritted her teeth. What right did Laurens have to use that title? She did not voice those thoughts. He had been patient with her so far, and she did not want to push that particular limit.

Instead, she pursued another line of questioning. “My mother has been dead for almost two years now, Mr Laurens,” she said lightly. “Why have you come now? If you wanted to raise me, you should have come in '81.”

“The war was not over then,” Laurens explained, wincing as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

Frances whipped her head to fix Laurens with a glare. "So the war has been more important to you than your own family," her voice was deceptively calm.

“I did not mean to say that,” Laurens hurried to elaborate.

“But you _did_ say that,” Frances retorted. “And you _did_ mean it.”

Laurens did not try to deny her accusation, which, while it hurt, at least earned him points for honesty.

“Where are we going?” Frances changed the subject.

“To New York,” Laurens replied tersely.

“Where in New York?” Frances pressed.

Laurens shifted. “I was rather hoping that the Hamiltons might be polite enough to temporarily take us in.”

Frances stared. “You are taking me to your former lover, in the hopes that he might take pity on us,” she enunciated. “To your _unlawful_ former lover, may I add.”

“The 'former' part might change,” Laurens mentioned casually.

Frances closed her eyes with a groan. “I do not want to hear it,” she opened one eye to stare at the man who was, allegedly, her father. “God, I do hope that I did not inherit your recklessness.”

“Eliza would say that you should not take the Lord's name in vain,” Laurens said, intentionally letting the 'reckless' insult pass without a comment.

“What about you?” Frances tilted her head curiously. “Will you scold me?”

Laurens' lips quirked into a smile. “I am not in the habit of being a hypocrite,” he replied. “I am many things, but I am not a hypocrite. So, to answer your question: no, I will not scold you.”

“Are you not religious?” Frances asked, more out of the need to fill the soon-to-be uncomfortable silence than any actual curiosity.

Laurens shrugged. “I believe that there is a God, if that's what you mean. But no, I don't believe that He would be angry with us simply for misusing His name. I think that, for Him, it is more important that we are kind to each other, and do our best to live as decent human beings.”

Frances scoffed. “Is that how you defend your desires for men?”

Laurens did not respond. Frances returned to her book. Laurens took in the scene before him. “What are you reading?” he asked eventually.

Frances did not look up from her book. “ _Thoughts upon Female Education_ by Benjamin Rush,” she said tersely, voice discouraging any further questions.

After that, the journey was spent spent in a tense silence only sometimes interrupted by Frances making a quick query.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

All too soon did the carriage arrive in the city of New York. Wall Street. 82nd on Wall Street. Laurens stepped out of the carriage and offered Frances a hand down. She shot him a reproaching glance, carefully climbing down herself. Laurens watched her, torn between amusement at her behaviour, and chagrin at her sheer stubbornness.

Laurens took a deep breath, as though gathering courage, and approached the door. He knocked twice and took a step back, motioning for Frances to stand just behind him.

Frances heard footsteps approaching the door, and the door opened to reveal Eliza Schuyler Hamilton. Eliza opened her mouth, as if to invite them in automatically, then took a long look at Laurens and closed her mouth. She blinked, then smiled widely. “John!” she stepped forward and, before either of the Laurenses knew it, enveloped Mr Laurens in a hug. “We thought you were dead. God, Alexander–“ her voice broke. She swallowed, stepped back, though she kept her arms around Laurens. “Alexander will be delighted to know you're alive.”

“What happened–“ Laurens started.

“We–we thought you were _dead_. We got a letter from your father saying that you were–“ Mrs Hamilton stopped. Swallowed. “You haven't seen Alexander after he read that letter,” she said at length. “He would not talk to me. He locked himself up in his office for three days and wouldn't come out. Three consecutive days, John. Do you know what it means when Alexander does not talk for that long? At times, I was not unconvinced that he had starved himself to death as some sort of perceived punishment, mayhaps survivor's guilt.”

“Oh God,” John exhaled. “I did not know.”

“How could you?” Mrs Hamilton smiled a little sadly. She then peeked around Laurens, fixing her black eyes on Frances.

Laurens took a step back to stand beside his daughter. “This is Frances, my daughter.”

Mrs Hamilton tilted her head, studying Frances. “You are his daughter. I don't think John has ever mentioned you before. He certainly has not mentioned any wife,” at that, she turned to glare reprovingly at Laurens.

Frances snorted. “Good to know that he did not keep things solely from my mother and myself.”

Eliza abruptly started, and stepped inside into the house, reminded that it was evening and that, with how lightly her guests were dressed, they were quite probably freezing. “Come in, John, Frances – may I call you Frances?”

Frances considered this briefly. “Yes, ma'am.”

Mrs Hamilton laughed. It was a nice, pearly laughter. Despite herself, Frances smiled. “Please, call me Eliza,” Mrs Hamilton insisted heartily.

“Yes, ma'am,” Frances agreed.

Mrs Hamilton grinned. “I will get you to call me Eliza yet, young one.”

Frances very much doubted that, but she found it imprudent to say that to their would-be hostess and, it would see, the wife of her father's lover. She nodded in acquiescence instead, and was rewarded with another of Mrs Hamilton's warm smiles.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

Frances was sitting in an armchair, sipping at a cup of tea while Laurens and Mrs Hamilton chatted away on the couch not far from her, exchanging gossip and updating each other on their respective lives.

They were cut off by the sound of a door opening, followed by a male voice echoing through the house. “Betsey, I'm back!”

“Alexander, come in here,” Mrs Hamilton replied, raising her voice just enough for the man to be able to hear her. “There's someone you need to meet.”

“Who?” Hamilton's – because that was who it must have been, based on the reaction of Frances' father – voice sounded closer, approaching the living room. He entered the room, and, like Eliza, froze at the sight of Laurens. His eyes drank in the sight like a drowning man searched desperately for air, and his lips formed an O.

Laurens chuckled, standing up. “Dear Alexander,” he said, and Frances had never heard that kind of warmth in his voice, not even when he was addressing Frances' aunt. Granted, Frances had only known him for a day, but she doubted that anyone but this Hamilton could prompt such a reaction. “If I had known that my mere presence would cause you to be so lacking your usual loquaciousness, I would have arrived earlier.”

Frances snorted. Nobody paid any attention to her. Her father stood perfectly still as Hamilton seemed to snap out of whatever mood had befallen him, and rushed forward to meet Laurens. He gripped his forearms and pulled him in for a thorough kiss. Laurens seemed surprised but did not resist, even reciprocating the kiss after he got over the shock.

The two men would have stayed like that indefinitely, had Mrs Hamilton not coughed pointedly. Chagrined, Hamilton took a step back, though not before closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Laurens' (which, considering the impressive height difference, was quite a feat). “My dear Laurens,” he murmured.

“My dear Hamilton,” Laurens replied in the same tender tone.

“How lovely,” Mrs Hamilton drawled. “Need I remind you that we are not alone?”

Hamilton's eyes snapped open. He swiveled around to look at his wife. “We are not?” he queried, then caught sight of Frances. He flinched. “Who are you?” he said a little harshly.

Laurens gripped the arm of his lover. “Alexander,” he said quietly, “this is my Frances Laurens. She is my daughter.”

Hamilton frowned confusedly. “Your daughter?” he asked incredulously. “John, I was not aware that you are married,” he shot Laurens a confused look.

“Neither was I, if it helps,” Mrs Hamilton chimed in cheerfully.

“Not really, no,” Hamilton said distractedly, “but thank you anyway, Betsey dearest.”

“Was,” Laurens finally managed to get the words out in between Hamilton's constant chatter.

“What?” the other man turned to look at Laurens in bewilderment.

“Was,” Laurens reiterated. “I _was_ married.”

“My mother died when I was four,” Frances felt the need to clarify.

Hamilton swiveled to look at her with contemplation. Frances felt as though she was a rare specimen under dissection. She absentmindedly wondered whether Hamilton induced that effect in everyone, or whether she was just that special. He finally spoke. “My own mother died when I was twelve,” he shared, and Frances saw, out of the corner of her eye, that Laurens and Mrs Hamilton exchanged a surprised look. Either they did not know, or, more likely in this case, Hamilton did not make a habit of sharing this with anyone, let alone virtual strangers. “I held her in my arms as she died. My father left when I was ten. If you ever need to talk, Miss Laurens, just know that I am here to listen, and that I understand the loss of a parent at such an age,” he said, not unsympathetically, but Frances did not detect any pity from him, which instantly made him rise in her estimation.

She smiled; it was a genuine smile. “I do believe I will take you up on this offer at some point, Mr Hamilton.”

Hamilton approached her. “I do not believe that we have been properly introduced, Miss Laurens,” he grinned brightly, offering a hand. She shook it. “I'm Alexander Hamilton.”

"Frances Laurens. So," Frances said at length, staring at Hamilton with her blue eyes, "you are the man with whom my father committed adultery."

Laurens put his face on his hands. Hamilton's face became as red as his hair. Eliza snickered. "You will fit in perfectly, Frances Laurens," she grinned.

Hamilton and Laurens exchanged wary glances. “And how do you know that, Miss Laurens?” Hamilton asked.

"My sister confronted me about it. Apparently Frances' mental faculties are quite beyond her physical age," Laurens explained with a sheepish smile.

“ _She_ is also able to speak for herself,” Frances declared defiantly. Laurens looked surprised at her fierceness but bowed down to it, in a very literal sense.  


“As milady commands.”

Frances noted the looks that Hamilton was throwing in the direction of her father, and internally winced. She may not know exactly what physical intimacy entailed when it came to two people of the same gender, but she had read up on sexual intercourse enough to be able to make some vague guesses, and what she _did_ know disgusted her thoroughly, regardless of who was involved in the act.

She decided to remove herself from the scene. “I am quite tired, Mr and Mrs Hamilton,” she addressed them both, though she kept glancing at Mrs Hamilton.

Fortunately, Mrs Hamilton also seemed to have spotted the way the two men were looking at each other covertly (or so they thought), and went along with Frances. “Yes, why don't I show you your bedroom?” she suggested, already heading upstairs. “I'm afraid you will have to satisfy yourself with a guest bedroom for the night, since we were not expecting you and have not made any permanent arrangements, but we will have ample time for that tomorrow, I believe. Yes, yes…” she trailed off, then glanced back to where her husband and Frances' father had somehow shrunk the space between them and were whispering fervently into each other's ears. “Alexander.”

“Hmmm?” Hamilton did not quite detach himself from Laurens, but he exhibited attentiveness. “Yes, Betsey?”

“You will show John up to an appropriate bedroom, won't you?” Mrs Hamilton said sweetly, although Frances could not tell whether it was genuine sweetness or a subtle reprimand.

Hamilton nodded silently and– was he sucking on Laurens' neck? _Retreat, Frances, retreat._

Mrs Hamilton (Frances really should start getting used to calling her Eliza, considering that they were going to live together and last names really put a bummer into building healthy relationships – not that any of her relationships were healthy by any measure, but she read that in a book - despite her previous misgivings on the matter. Hamilton would stay Hamilton, though – there was just something about the man that made her wary of growing too close to the man. He exhibited an air of danger, of stress, of overwhelming passion and energy, and she wanted nowhere near that mess of a hurricane) gestured for her to follow up the stairs. She pointed at the second door on the right. “That is our guest bedroom. Well, one of them,” she amended. “You will sleep here tonight, and tomorrow, we will make more permanent arrangements, what do you say?”

Frances simply nodded, not feeling like she had anything to add since the plan sounded good.

Mrs Ham– _Eliza_ then pointed at the other doors. “That's the bathroom, and that's my and Alexander's bedroom,” she said while pointing out the doors on the left.

“I assume that Mr Laurens will be sleeping with you and your husband?” Frances asked neutrally.

If Eliza was surprised at the way France addressed Laurens, she did not let it show. “Yes, your father will be sleeping with Alexander and myself, for reasons you seem to have already surmised,” she confirmed. “Now, the next door is Alexander's office. Do not enter it. Believe me, it is a _mess_ ,” she grimaced. “My husband's organizational skills are practically non-existent. That's another guest room,” she pointed at the final door to the left, then turned across the hall, “and that is our library. Alexander likes to keep it fully stocked. Do you like to read, Frances?”

Frances smiled. It was almost involuntary, but the mere thought of books usually had that kind of reaction on her. “Yes, ma'am. I really do.”

“ _Eliza_ , please,” Eliza persisted with a smile.

“Eliza,” Frances conceded, surprised by how easily she did that.

Eliza gifted her with another smile, then continued her tour, ignoring the faint sounds of panting coming from downstairs. Frances wished she could have as selective a hearing as Eliza seemed to have. Years of training, Frances assumed. “That room is empty,” Eliza said, pointing at the third door on the right, then moving on to the one closest to the stairs. “This,” she said of the door “is our son's room. His name is Philip and he is one year old. He is rather quiet, for a child, but smart. He likes to play but doesn't like to cause trouble. Oddly enough, he does not cry often,” Eliza mused.

Frances shrugged lightly. “Neither did I, as a child. At least, not according to my aunt.”

Eliza grinned, then, hearing another sound from downstairs – hissing of some sort, if Frances was not mistaken – she gestured towards the second door on the right. “I will leave you to settle in,” with that, she went downstairs, and Frances did not have to strain her hearing to be able to hear Eliza scold Hamilton with a “Did I not tell you to take it upstairs? At least be quiet. If you wake up Philip, you're the one putting him to sleep. No, John, you are not exempt from this,” followed by a sigh. “God, give me patience to deal with these fools. If you give me strength, I will surely kill them.”

Frances may or may not have snickered at that comment.

Instead of going into her room, however, she decided to check up on the youngest inhabitant of the house. She opened the first door on the right and entered, taking great care to be as quiet as she possibly could. She approached the crib cautiously and peered down into it. Sleeping baby? Check. She sighed. “Hello, Philip. It seems that you will, from now on, be my younger brother. I'll do my best not to steal your toys.”

It could have been Frances' imagination, but she could have sworn that the baby smiled at her at those exact words.

✷ 　 ˚ 　　　　　　　  
⋆ . .　 　 　 　  
·　　.  
* ✫ 　  
　 * *  
　 　 *  
　　　　 *

They settled in to quite a nice existence at the Hamilton residence. Frances learned that Hamilton was a lawyer, that he never defended someone if he was convinced of their guilt, that he was quite good with finances but felt indifferent towards money, that his favourite colour was green (though that did not take a genius to discover, considering his taste in clothing), that he played the piano and liked to compose his own music, that he also liked to sing, and that he was a truly terrible singer. For such a brilliant composer, he simply could not hold the right tune. As a result, everything he sung sounded like a cat being bathed (which was a sound that she was eerily well-acquainted with, from back when Auntie still had a cat – coincidentally, it had run off shortly after Frances tried to give it a bath. In Frances' defense, the cat smelled _awfully_ and she felt that it was her civic duty to give it a thorough scrub).

Last but not least, Alexander Hamilton was an extraordinary storyteller. She found that out when he invited her to listen to a bedtime story that he was telling Philip. Initially, she hesitated in the doorway, not certain whether she should come in and interrupt such a private moment, but in the end, Hamilton's stories were too intriguing not to listen to. Besides, she had practically heard the man have sex with her own father. She thought that they had passed the limit of appropriate intimacy a while ago, and that she was, therefore, entitled to these stories, in a way.

Hamilton was also smart – scarily so. Frances always considered herself quite a genius, and she _was_ , but she was nothing compared to Hamilton – who, if his claims were true, spoke six languages and was learning a seventh in his free time. When Hamilton mentioned free time, Eliza audibly scoffed and asked whether he even knew the meaning of the words.

Hamilton was not condescending, not pitying; he did not talk down to her; he did not treat her like a child but rather as an equal. He often indulged her in conversations, topics varying between everything from obscure mythology to linguistic development to political sciences to natural sciences. He was surprised that Frances could, for the most part, keep up with him, and readily explained anything she did not understand.

In short, Frances was very fond of Alexander Hamilton.

If Alexander Hamilton instantly gave off the impression of being fierce and passionate, the anthropomorphic personification of chaos, then Eliza Hamilton was the exact opposite. Calm, gentle, yet unyielding, she ruled the household with an iron fist and sweet words.

Really, Frances had never seen two people more opposite, more contradictory, and yet the love they felt for each other was palpable. Frances tried to understand how her father factored into their marriage, but that was the one conversation Hamilton refused to have with her, contending that 'since she flinched every time sex – or, indeed, even romance – was mentioned, she was not ready to discuss either of the matters', which, Frances shrugged, was fair enough.

Frances had soon come to discover that Eliza was also fierce and passionate, but in her own way. Whereas Hamilton seemed to be passionate about virtually _everything_ , Eliza chose with care what she invested her interest in, but once she did, she threw everything she had into the cause. Mostly, her interests included helping widows, orphans, the poor, the unfortunate, and so on.

Eliza Hamilton was a true blessing. Frances thought that Hamilton should consider himself lucky to have such an amazing wife, and so accepting of his… eccentrics.

As much as Frances has come to respect Hamilton, if she had to choose someone after whom she wanted to model herself, it was Eliza Hamilton, with her endless empathy and concern for others.

And then there was her father. Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens.

She was surprised, pleasantly so, to learn that, while he may have failed as a father, he was not a bad person per se. He was a loyal friend, a brave soldier, and a good person. He, together with Eliza and Hamilton, were staunch abolitionists, and Laurens had begun to study law again. This time, he said once with a defiant glint in his eyes, it was not because he was bowing to his father's wishes but because he truly wanted to improve the world, help those who could not help themselves.

Her father, she discovered with a surprise one evening, had a superb singing voice which nicely complimented Eliza's. They were sitting in the living room, Eliza fussing with Philip, who was, for his part, content to smile at her and play with her finger, while Hamilton was sitting at the piano, writing something, his quill scratching the parchment whenever he felt dissatisfied with whatever it was he was creating. He would frown at the parchment, then growl, then frown again, until his eyes lit up as he came up with a new idea. He would then return to frantically composing. Laurens seemed to be devoted to his favourite hobby, namely staring at people – in this case, Hamilton.

Hamilton finally seemed to have finished whatever it was he had been working on, and began to play a tune on the piano. Laurens' head snapped up. He caught Hamilton's eyes, and they both smiled at each other. Laurens then began to hum a tune Frances was not familiar with, although Eliza clearly was, since she joined him. Soon, the two were outright singing. Frances had to admit that they sounded quite beautiful together.

It was a scene Frances was to treasure in later years, because it was the first, though by far not the last, time she had felt truly happy with the Hamiltons.

Frances was seven, and she had come home.

 


End file.
